


And All The Kids Cried Out, "Please Stop, You're Scaring Me!"

by sava



Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: Alcohol, Blood, Child Abuse, Death, Gen, Guns, Murder, Swearing, seriously this isn't a happy story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-08
Updated: 2015-10-08
Packaged: 2018-04-25 10:28:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4956784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sava/pseuds/sava
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Morty Sanchez disliked many things, but the three things he disliked most were as follows: uncertainty, candies with nuts in them, and his grandfather.</p>
<p>In fact, he disliked candies with nuts in them the most, but his grandfather was a close second."</p>
<p>In which Rick Sanchez is a jaded alcoholic who should never be a guardian, and Morty Sanchez knows the truth about the Ricks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And All The Kids Cried Out, "Please Stop, You're Scaring Me!"

**Author's Note:**

> im not sure if i made this obvious?? but this is evil mort
> 
> also rick what the fuck

Morty Sanchez disliked many things, but the three things he disliked most were as follows: uncertainty, candies with nuts in them, and his grandfather.

In fact, he disliked candies with nuts in them the most, but his grandfather was a close second.

Rick Sanchez of Earth Dimension R-419 was Morty's grandfather. Rick Sanchez of Earth Dimension R-419 was also Morty Sanchez's guardian and his caretaker, and had been for most of Morty's life. Most importantly of all, Rick Sanchez of Earth Dimension R-419 was possibly the worst man in the entire multiverse to entrust with a child.

Morty Sanchez always had at least three guns on his person at all times. Morty Sanchez could kill someone in at least two hundred different ways. Morty Sanchez could build an ionic amplifier in under an hour. Morty Sanchez swore, he stole, he deceived, he murdered, and he was the smartest Morty of them all. Also, Morty Sanchez hated his grandfather.

Deep down, on such rare and fleeting occasions that they seemed practically nonexistent, Morty almost idolized his grandfather. His jaded, alcoholic asshole of a guardian was all he had.

If you tried to talk to him about it, though, he'd probably slit your throat.

Because Morty hated his grandfather. He hated every version of his grandfather. Knowing that there were Morties out there whose Ricks were kind and charitable and loving made him furious. Those Ricks were fakes. Those different Morties didn't know what Rick really was, what he really did- they didn't know that no matter how thoughtful or nice or sweet he was, he didn't care. And Morty Sanchez knew that if there was any single true fact in the entire chaotic universe, it was that Ricks didn't care about Morties.

\--

For his sixth birthday, Rick had bought him a gun.

It had been metal, and there'd been lines of dim turquoise light on the barrel.

"How do I use it?" Morty asked. He knew this was a rhetorical question. He'd used guns plenty before.

"You aim, you pull the trigger, you repeat." Rick took a long swig from his flask.

Morty had loved it. Morty still loved it.

He decided to use it to shoot his grandfather's brains out.

\--

In a shitty motel in his own dimension, Morty, age eight, stared at Rick's flask. Drool ran down Rick's chin as he chugged the alcohol.

The old man stretched, belched disgustingly, and stared back at him. 

Morty didn't care. Morty never cared. 

"Want some?" Rick asked. He held out the flask.

Morty regarded it warily. Rick sneered, the scar on his left eye crinkling. "Awww," he said, and then belched again. "Is little Morty too scared to drink l-like the big boys?"

The breath flew out of Morty's lungs.

Rick cocked an eyebrow.

Morty lunged and grabbed the flask. His throat burned as he angrily downed the booze. It tasted like fire.

He didn't come up for air until the flask was empty, half of it gone in under a minute. Morty didn't cough or sputter. He simply held out the flask for Rick to grab.

Rick regarded him as he snatched the flask.

"Impressive," he said, and then he threw the flask at Morty's head.

(Morty liked to forget that he'd turned that single word over and over again in his mind for a week afterward.)

\--

The floorboards creaked quietly under his feet. It wouldn't wake Rick up. Morty had dumped sleeping medicine in his expensive strawberry liquor while he was pissing.

Rick was asleep at the table, snoring as cherry red liquor soaked the plastic top and the fake wood floor. It had stained the elbow of his lab coat.

The cool metal was firm in his hand. There was a backpack at the door, filled with money and weapons.

He wasn't scared.

Dim turquoise lit up Rick's back, the only light in the dark room. The gun was steady in his hands.

Morty held his breath.

The world fell still.

Then his finger twitched on the trigger, and in the span of four seconds, Rick Sanchez of Earth Dimension R-419 was dead.

Morty almost wished he felt regret. But all that was left was relief, clear and sound.

He slipped out of the door just as the sun was rising.

\--

He made a body from wires and cloning technology. Its head did not contain a brain, but a compound of silicon and chips and transmitters.

Morty was proud of his work.

He also made an artificial eyeball, with cords running through it and sensors instead of blood. It mirrored the one in his right eye socket exactly, every nerve ending precisely copied.

Pain wasn't unusual to him. He'd broken limbs and snapped muscles and had even had to replace his own fingers a few times.

This pain was different.

Morty had never ripped out his own eyeball before.

It was... Interesting.

\--

Through the transmitter, he heard Rick C-137 cry.

Over a Morty.

Disgusting, filthy, that's what he was, to even pretend to care.

Ricks didn't care about Morties.

\--

Morty remembered. He could see Rick's snarl, his clouded eyes, the can in his hands.

"That fucking- that deal- it would've gotten me out of this rut, you little-" He paused to belch. "You fucking shit."

He hadn't meant to shoot the chick Rick was selling the weapon to. She had just startled him. That was all.

And then she'd run off, shouting obscenities, cursing them both to Hell and back.

Without paying.

"L-look what you fucking did." Rick was drunk. Really drunk. Morty had counted nineteen beers- a new record. 

And then Rick's hand was in the air- Morty was on his back- Rick's foot was on his chest, and he was heaving in breaths-

Rick leaned down, dribbling beer on Morty.

"You're just lu-luck-lucky I promised Beth to keep you alive, you ass-assmuncher."

And then a swift kick to his ribs. Morty gasped, and coughed, and then Rick was kicking and punching and he couldn't breathe- it hurt so bad, so so bad.

Morty was choking on his own blood, on spit, on hatred and anger and fear and pain.

And most of all, Morty hated whoever Beth was, for making Rick promise not to kill him. He wanted to die. He wanted this pain to end.

It did end, eventually, and Rick stopped. He stood up, wobbly, shaky, and said, "That- it hurt, huh?" He belched. "Huh? It hurt? I f-fuck-fucking- I hope so."

He delivered one last kick, but it missed. Rick took another swig of his beer can before dropping it and waddling away drunkenly, belching and muttering.

Morty could breathe, but it hurt, it hurt.

Morty was seven years old, and he had realized just how much he hated Rick.

\--

His plan had failed.

It wasn't that surprising.

He only wondered if the Morty of C-137 knew just how bad the Ricks were.

\--

The bruise was a nasty one, purple-yellow. Had Rick damaged one of his ribs?

He hoped not. 

Morty Sanchez was seven years old, and he was wondering if he had a broken rib. Blood covered the roof of mouth, but it still felt dry.

The room was dark, and cold. Morty shivered as he inspected the bruise, ugly and dirty looking and strangely colored.

Just like Rick. Morty let out a little laugh.

He'd checked, and Rick had worn himself out after beating the shit out of his grandson. The asshole.

Morty felt fire where there should have been pain, and anger where there should have been hurt. Rick had beat him. For practically nothing.

Rick had BEAT HIM.

Morty found himself biting his lips until warmth slowly oozed out around the teeth. He had no right. Morty had saved his ass too many times to count, and how had Rick repaid him?

Morty was not scared, and while the extremely large bruise blooming like a disgusting flower on his chest hurt, he was mostly just angry. Fire danced on his tongue, in his lungs; it burned its way up his throat.

He screamed.

Rick wouldn't wake up. Not for Morty screaming.

Morty yelled, he shrieked, he stood and punched the scaly drywall of the alien motel room. He hated Rick. He hated Rick. Disgusting, filthy, dirty asshole.

He could see Rick now in his mind's eye. He smelled like rotten fruit and spoiled meat, grossly sweet, the scar on his left eye twitching strangely when he scowled at Morty.

Morty hated him so much. It was like someone had sparked a lighter on all the gasoline wallowing in his system. Fire burned in him; it came out as screams and as punches, as swears and kicks. He took every glass bottle of liquor in Rick's stash and smashed them, shattered them, watching as the alcohol mixed and dripped and wove itself around broken glass shards.

Morty was ablaze. 

Because he knew. He had realized. Ricks didn't care about Morties.

He screamed it, with fire on his tongue and hatred in his heart.

It was the truth.

Morty almost wished it wasn't.

\--

So. His work had been destroyed.

Some of his best work, too. 

And yet, he found himself grateful.

His last connection to the filthy person who had masqueraded as a grandfather was gone.

The wires were tucked back into his artificial eye. The sensors in it adjusted, both to accommodate the bright light and to reconnect with the change in depth perception. 

Someone nearby let out a dramatic sob. He kept walking.

His eyepatch was thrown to the ground, crushed underfoot. The Morties surrounding him sniffled and cried, not looking as he cut away the invisible thread that wrapped around his neck like a noose: the thread of Rick.

Morty was free. And he was ablaze.

They would get their karma. And that karma would come from him. He would go to the ends of the universe to see that through.

And when they burned, they would know the name Morty Sanchez.

God help them if they lived long enough to learn much of anything else about him.

\--


End file.
